He Is Not One of Us
by 94 Bottles Of Snapple
Summary: What kind of desperate do you get when you are cursed to have only one year left to live? Meet Gilbert Beillschmidt. A military commander running for his life, or what little he has left, and all of the people he meets along the way. AU.


**A/N: Why am I starting a new story? Because I can! And because I was listening to a song. Don't expect another chapter soon, although I've started it. I'm just not feeling very motivated right now.**

**Don't own Hetalia or any of its characters!**

A Man Disgraced

_They say that the blood of another does not easily wash from your hands once you spill it. Gilbert Beillschmidt did not disagree with this. After all… The blood of others had not only been on his hands, but also in his crimson eyes. No one had held that against him before._

_But then again, he hadn't killed from rage before._

_It was, some felt, to be his last mistake. And even if they didn't know how true that was… _

_Gilbert begged to differ._

His red eyes narrowed in a dark glare, the albino man ran a pale finger over the scar that now adorned his right eye. The token he had been so graciously given by a man now dead. It was fairly light—he was lucky, it didn't impair his vision. But it had left more of a mark than just a physical one.

That man, his death was the reason that Gilbert had to be out here now, in the dead of night, travelling like a burglar, instead of the nationally-renowned military genius he was. Feared as a demon by his enemies, revered as an angel of death by his countrymen.

Gilbert loved the thrill of battle, the heavy and familiar weight of a blade in his hand. He was a man who prided himself on professionalism and honor, both on and off the field of battle. He had thought he would live his life as he pleased; leaving the world in a blaze of glory, no matter the length of his lifetime.

It was not to be.

In a large-scale fight against a band of rebellious revolutionaries, Gilbert had cornered their leader, a blond man with green eyes hard as diamonds. And though injured heavily, the man had smirked at him even as blood trailed across his lips.

"What do you find so funny…?" Gilbert had demanded, gripping the front of the man's shirt in one hand and angling his blade to trace the blond's jugular with the other.

The man said nothing, simply chuckling with a wheeze of a cough and wrapping a pale, shaking hand around Gilbert's forearm tightly. The touch began to burn, and Gilbert shoved the revolutionary away with both hands, the force slitting his throat so that he died.

But even dead, that was not the end of the blond man.

He, like the man who would come later, had left a mark on Gilbert's pale skin. But this… This was a mark of death. Burned into the underside of his left forearm, just below the wrist, was a pattern of a poppy flower.

For the rest of the day, he clamped his right hand over the mark. No one could know. No one.

The poppy flower was a symbol of death. Anyone who bore that mark was cursed with a single year to live. An effective curse, but one forbidden, known only to those who had managed to learn the Old Ways. The Old Ways had been banned by the king when he first took the throne, forcefully, over fifty years before.

Anyone now with a curse of that kind placed upon them was assumed to have a connection to the Old Ways, and was labeled a traitor. It was a secret that Gilbert could not disclose to anyone, lest he wanted his last year alive to end in torture.

Now, even with such a thing hanging over his head, Gilbert was not about to just sit around and wait to die. He did as much as he could, stalking the shadows of the kingdom, speaking to any in the darkest places who knew anything of the Old Ways.

All of his searches ended up in failure. After two months, things were looking bleak. Gilbert was getting restless and angry. So, when a light-haired mercenary who went by the name Vash dared insult him while on his way into the palace for an audience with the king, Gilbert lashed out.

The fight was long, and no one, not even the palace guards, dared try to separate them. Gilbert had managed at last to strike down Vash, but he let his guard down too soon. While the albino was panting heavily, still with the tip of his sword pointing at the other man's throat, Vash had lurched to the side and taken a swipe at Gilbert's face. It was then that he had acquired his scar.

It would be the last thing Vash would ever do. In a split second, Gilbert's blade was buried deep in the other man's heart.

Gilbert only realized what he had done as he pulled his sword out, still breathing heavily, and saw the blood splattered everywhere. The guards stood, staring, awe and fear on their faces… Stared at this demonic wraith speckled with blood, who gazed back at them with crimson eyes.

Gilbert fled.

He said no goodbyes, packed nothing but a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, and left the city. Even as privileged a man as he was, Gilbert knew what the penalty would be for killing the king's trusted mercenary in cold blood.

Luckily, Gilbert was well-travelled within the kingdom. He knew places to go that the king's men would never think to look for him. The area to the north was especially one such place. An area near-barren of civilization, populated with very few towns, and not a single full city. Only a fool would travel to such a place, when the well-populated cities of the south offered so many people to hide among.

Gilbert knew he could not hide among a crowd. He was too noticeable, with his pale, wintry skin, white hair, and red eyes. The north would be safer. Much safer. Only one prominent figure lived in that area, the Baron Antonio Carriedo, who was well-known among the nobility and higher up military for his careless attitude and cheerfulness. Gilbert did not fear much from such a man, especially when compared to the viciousness of the other nobles, and even the king himself.

So he followed the stars north, just along the side of the road, so he could hide in the ditch if anyone came along. He had grown up a paranoid man, and it was what had kept him alive through many battles. Gilbert was arrogant, but not one to underestimate an opponent, ever.

It was especially crucial when he knew just who would be sent to track him.

"Always, it is a blond man who causes me problems, huh…?" he laughed in his rough voice, red eyes bright with anger.

Because beyond just that the man he knew would be sent to kill him being the second best of the military, as everyone knew… It would be the cruelest punishment imaginable for Gilbert's crime.

They were going to send Ludwig.

Ludwig Beillschmidt.

His little brother.

There was no doubt of this, Gilbert knew. The king was not a forgiving man… Not ever. It made him bark out another rough, cynical laugh that caught in the wind and swirled up to the heavens.

There was nothing he could do. It was inevitable, but Gilbert was a stubborn man. He refused to die, he refused to be captured, and he refused to fight his brother head-on like the blond would surely wish. He couldn't go back, couldn't rewind things, couldn't take back that dead mercenary or the burning omen on his left arm, couldn't go back and say goodbye to the only person he cared about in the entire world.

So he shuffled along, knapsack in tow, tired red eyes staring up at the billions of twinkling stars above him, shining points of light and hope down upon a man who had none.


End file.
